


The Night the Stew Spilled

by BenevolentErrancy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, brief reference to transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:25:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenevolentErrancy/pseuds/BenevolentErrancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly is a self-reliant person by necessity, he grew up learning that if he needed something done, he was the one that would have to do it. And this isn't necessarily a bad thing: he's productive and self-motivated and a pleasure to work alongside.</p>
<p>What is a bad thing is that Feuilly doesn't seem to realize that he now has people who genuinely want to help him when things become too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night the Stew Spilled

**Author's Note:**

> A short quick fill for a prompt on my tumblr: "You mentioned something about Bahorel being frustrated about Feuilly not letting him know what he needs, so now all I can picture is Feuilly always pushing away from Bahorel when he's upset because he has such a hard time trusting people and although he'd never admit it he's a little afraid that Bahorel is gonna leave him like so many people have before, especially if he admits his insecurities and is 'too whiny' and then Bahorel figures/finds out and is horrified and they just cuddle"

Bahorel didn’t know anything was wrong until he heard the crash.

“Babe, you okay?” he called, not looking up from his laptop where he and Grantaire were trying to kick pixelated ass.

When no response came Bahorel didn’t waste another second, not even to message Grantaire – he tossed the laptop onto a pillow, sprang from the couch and rushed into the kitchen.  Upon entering he found Feuilly next to the stove where he had been reheating himself dinner after a late shift at work.  Instead of how he had left it though, Bahorel saw the pot tipped over onto the floor, and hot stew splashed over the linoleum and Feuilly’s bare feet.  Feuilly himself was hunched in on himself, trembling and holding his hands close to his chest; he wasn’t making a single noise.

“Fuck, shit, are you okay?” he asked, picking his way around the mess so he could get to Feuilly.  “Did you burn yourself?”

“I’m  _fine_ ,” Feuilly forced through grit teeth.

Bahorel pursed his lips.  Because  _that_  was definitely a voice that just screamed “fine”.

“Whatever you say.  Move out of the mess, I’ll get something to clean it up with.”

“I said I don’t need help,” said Feuilly stiffly, stepping back, making small, aborted kicks to try to shake the mess from his feet. “I did this, I can clean it up.”

“Sure, and I can help you.  Teamwork and all that bullshit.  I probably let Grantaire die just now so I might as well make sure I pull my weight somewhere, right?”  He gave Feuilly a nudge in the ribs – he was trying to lighten to the mood, make Feuilly laugh or huff or slap him away.

Instead Feuilly just looked stricken.  “You shouldn’t have stopped just for this–”

“Dude,” said Bahorel, cutting him off.  “R can suck it up.  I needed to make sure my boyfriend didn’t break himself.  Here, let me see your hands, that shit looked hot…”

Feuilly physically pulled his hands away from Bahorel’s, hard enough that he nearly stumbled back into the counter.  “I. Am. Fine,” he said with such force that Bahorel took a conceding step back.  “I just…”  He wasn’t facing Bahorel anymore, his face turned down towards the ground, chin tucked to his chest.  He was still clinging to his own hands, like they hurt.  “I’m going to clean myself up and then I’ll be right back and I’m going to fix this and everything will  _be fine_.  Go sit down, Bahorel.”  And with that he marched out of the kitchen.

For a few minutes, Bahorel stood in the warzone of a kitchen and mulled over what had happened.  It hadn’t been a fight, exactly.  He knew how to handle fights, he and Feuilly could get into some great ones if they were both feeling stressed and annoyed with the other.  This had been… something.  And Bahorel didn’t like it.  It made him think of the way Feuilly would try to deny his colds up and down, try to convince Bahorel to let him go to work and  _stop fussing, I don’t need another mother, Rel, I’ve had enough over the years_  only to start throwing up an hour later.

So for the time being he left the mess as it was and crept quietly down the hall to the washroom, where he could hear the bath running. Poking his head in revealed a sad sight.  Feuilly was sitting on the toilet lid, his feet stuck in the tub under the tap; his hands had a wet cloth around them, but Bahorel could still see red peaking out from under it.

“You did get burned,” he said, entering the room and closing the door with a soft, decisive  _snk_  behind him.

Feuilly started, half turning with a frown on his face.  Bahorel just grinned cheekily at him and strolled up, kneeling next to Feuilly and carefully taking one hand.

“Sick burn, bro,” he said, grinning up at Feuilly, only to get a frown in return.  Bahorel shrugged, unrepentant, and then turned the hand he was holding around so that he could press a kiss to Feuilly’s bare wrist.

“Bahorel…” Feuilly started, but Bahorel pressed a finger to his lips and shushed him.

With single-minded purpose, Bahorel continued to deliver kisses up the inside of Feuilly’s arm until he’d gotten to his inner elbow.  He then took the other arm and repeated the ministration.

“You’re being ridiculous,” said Feuilly.

“Shh, I’m kissing my boyfriend’s hurts all better.”

“You’re actually the most ridiculous,” said Feuilly, but Bahorel could hear the reluctant happiness creeping into his voice – if he looked up now Bahorel was sure he’d see that shy smile of his, the one he he got when he was trying to hide how pleased he was.  Bahorel counted it as a quiet success.  Until Feuilly’s body stiffened again.

“Okay, I feel better now.  I’m going to clean up that mess,” said Feuilly, pulling his hand away.

It was amazing how attuned you could get to a person’s emotions, because Bahorel could swear he felt it get colder just then, as if he could feel the walls being carefully built back up.  Except the thing was, he didn’t know what had made them start to crumble in the first place.  Feuilly could be convinced, with enough tenderness and intimacy, to open a gate in them occasionally – more and more frequently, Bahorel liked to think, now that he was used to Bahorel’s open affection, to being able to give and receive it as freely breathing – but when they actually  _fell_  it meant that some sort of pressure had been building up.  For a while.  What Bahorel was seeing was only the aftermath, the fallout.

“Nope,” he said, letting the P pop in the way he knew drove Feuilly nuts. “What you’re doing is going to bed.”

“What– no, I’m not going to bed,” said Feuilly.  “It’s not even eleven. I haven’t _eaten_  yet. The kitchen is a disaster.  I have so much work I need to do, Enjolras is expecting work at the next meeting, and I’m reading a book Combeferre lent me and I…”  He trailed off, face set and determined, but he seemed to realize he wasn’t helping his case. “I’m not going to bed, Bahorel.”

“You are,” said Bahorel.  Because this was exactly like when Feuilly was sick and all Bahorel knew to do then was force Feuilly into bed until he got better, and that was all he knew to do right now and pray it worked.  “It’s already eleven.  I’ll bring you supper – that stew’s done for anyways, I’ll find something else, and I’ll clean up the kitchen.  I am capable of that on occasion, I’m a big boy now. And the work will keep.  If Enjolras looks mad we can just shove Grantaire in his line of fire instead and buy ourselves some more time.”

“I–”

“Nope, bedtime now.”

Argument made (quite eloquently he liked to think, his law profs would be so proud), he decided it was time for enforcement and in a single movement stood and scooped Feuilly up from the toilet lid.  He gave a squawk and kicked out, sending droplets of water from his wet feet splashing over both of them.  Bahorel ignored him, turned the water off, and began carrying him out.

“I can walk, I don’t need to be carried around,” said Feuilly, but his tone wasn’t quite as strong anymore.

A sarcastic quip sat on his tongue, the temptation to tell Feuilly that he had lost his walking privileges, but when he looked down to deliver his line with the appropriate cheeky grin he saw Feuilly’s face was pressed entirely against his chest and he just looked so… small.  And sure, Feuilly wasn’t the tallest bloke, especially not standing next to Bahorel, and he was skinny as sin, but this was a different sort of small.  He looked like a man trying desperately to hold everything inside, to drag himself into the smallest possible space, but was failing, could barely stop it from exploding out in every direction.  Bahorel thought of the splattered stew and the way Feuilly’s shoulders had trembled in the kitchen and how just maybe it hadn’t been just from the pain of the burns.  So instead of being snarky he stopped and held Feuilly all the closer.

“I know,” he said to Feuilly’s curls.  “But I like carrying you.”

Feuilly made a small, tight noise in the back of his throat but didn’t fight him when Bahorel angled them out of the bathroom and down the hall. He even let himself be placed onto the bed, where he stayed while Bahorel tugged the blankets out from under him and tucked himself in beside Feuilly.  After pulling Feuilly right up against his chest he pushed himself up and pressed a kiss to the bit of Feuilly’s jaw he could reach.  He could feel the muscles tense under it, like he was clenching his jaw.

“What happened?” he asked.  He wasn’t sure what to do, so he did away with the preamble.  Something was wrong, and he couldn’t make it better until he knew what it was.

“I was distracted and I accidentally tipped the pot over,” said Feuilly.

Bahorel just sighed.  “Okay,” he said, “but what happened?  Why were you distracted?  Why is it such a big deal?”

“It isn’t, it’s just…  Nothing happened.  Stop being an ass.”

“Fine. But if you won’t talk about it we’re staying in bed and cuddling.”

“'Rel…”

Bahorel just focused his attention on pressing kisses over the back of Feuilly’s neck and shoulders.

For a while they just lie there like that, in perfect silence, with Bahorel’s arms rubbing long, soothing strokes up Feuilly’s arms and his lips pressing against any bit of skin he could reach. Eventually, he became aware of the fact that Feuilly, while still silent, wasn’t simply lying there; his shoulders were trembling again and Bahorel had a sinking suspicion that he was crying.

When Feuilly spoke next Bahorel’s fear was proven right, his voice thick with unheard tears.  “Last week I got an email from one of my old foster sisters.  Lyssa.  She was nice.  Younger than me, we didn’t talk a lot and I didn’t stay long but she was sweet.  We kept in touch, I’ve helped her with teenage drama things.”  He sounded like he was choking now and Bahorel hugged him tighter.  “Her sister’s in the hospital.  They don’t know if she’ll…  It was a hate crime. She’s trans.  She came out a year ago, Lyssa emailed me to tell me, it was–  And some guy just… and Lyssa saw it all happen, she couldn’t do anything though, she’s tiny.  And I don’t know what to do,” cried Feuilly, voice breaking.  “And that’s all I’ve been able to  _think_  about, if she’ll be okay, if either of them will be okay, and there’s just been so much work to do and I can’t focus on any of it.  And I haven’t been able to sleep properly and I’m so tired and work was  _awful_ today and then the  _stew_ …” Feuilly trailed off, bubbling little sobs coming to replace his words.

“Fuck, man,” said Bahorel, when nothing more clever came to mind.  “Fuck. I’m so sorry.  Shit, man, why didn’t you say anything, I could have, I dunno, helped.”

“How?” demanded Feuilly.  “It’s my problem.  You didn’t need me ruining your week too, and I just… I didn’t want to, I could…”

“I could have done more of the housework, you could have gone to nap. Or like, I could’ve told Enjolras to fuck off and give the work to someone else this week, since god knows you wouldn’t say it to him. Or just like… held you, man.  God, you’re allowed to need help, Feuilly.  You know that, right?”

“I don’t… don’t want…  You don’t want to hear about all this.”

“Dude, I love you.  Like kind of a lot.  I want to be able to help you with sucky shit like this.”

Feuilly just sniffed loudly.

“You don’t have to do this all alone, Feuilly.”

“I don’t want you to get tired of me, don’t want you to leave.”  It came out all in one breathe, like something desperate, something that’s been kept knotted up tight, hidden deep, only just now allowed to burst free, lifted away on a tide of exhaustion and desperation and tears.  “I don’t… don’t want to be annoying, not when it’s something… stupid.”

“Fuck” said Bahorel softly.  And then he sat up very deliberately and pulled Feuilly into his lap.  “No.   _You_  are not stupid.  Never.  And I’m not leaving.  I’d never leave if you fucking asked me for help, how shitty of a boyfriend do you think I am?”

Feuilly didn’t say anything, just pressed his face into Bahorel’s shoulder, but even then Bahorel had a suspicion that Feuilly didn’t believe him, not wholly at least.  There wasn’t much that could change that though but time, and fortunately he intended to give Feuilly all the time he had to give.  

“We’re definitely going to have a talk about this,” said Bahorel severely, as he rubbed one big hand up and down Feuilly’s trembling back.  “But right now, I’m going to cuddle the fuck out of you and tell you that everything’s going to be okay.  So lie back down and get comfy.”

Feuilly nodded against Bahorel’s shoulder and, to both of their genuine relief, didn’t put up any sort of argument.


End file.
